


The One Who Is But Is Not

by LainellaFay



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Father/Son Incest, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 08:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4013071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LainellaFay/pseuds/LainellaFay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil lives amongst humans in the modern age.</p><p>  <i>“You realise that you will never be able to understand him, no matter how hard you try.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Who Is But Is Not

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit / Lord of the Rings.**
> 
>  
> 
> Again, meant to be studying and instead wtf do I do? Write fanfiction. Thanks brain...
> 
> First time writing in Second Person POV so I hope it turns out alright.

.

.

.

You were young, stupid, naïve, and completely smashed when you saw him. He was standing across the road, under a flickering street lamp, a tall, imposing figure looming under the only visible light on the stretch. You remember being struck by the image, felt it burn into your retinas, and you’re gone—just like that.

 _Stolen_.

 

-

 

He stares at the little birthmark on your collarbone—the shape of a tiny leaf. You try to read him, but his face betrays nothing, and when you hear people say _the eyes are the windows to the soul_ , you want to spit in their face and _laugh_ —because, how can they be more wrong? You peer into those eyes the colour of the sea and summer sky and all you see is your own reflection staring back at you.

His tongue laps at the spot and you shudder, a moan involuntarily escaping from your lips. You can feel his lips curl into a smirk on your skin and you tighten your hold on his shoulders. He lavishes his attention onto your mark, so much, that sometimes you wonder whether he likes that part of you more than he does the rest of you. You dismiss that thought with a laugh, because how can such a notion be true?

His soft, slender hand glides down your leg and wraps around your ankle, caressing the anklet you wear; a jest from your friend, _a leaf on your body now in material form_.

By now your body is so sensitive, every touch, every kiss, every breath against your skin sends you into a new height of pleasure and you _yearn_ for him. _Please please please_ …you beg and he chuckles before taking you, bringing you to the edge of the cliff— _so close, so close—_ and over it, until you’re lost and you cannot even remember your name.

 

-

 

You lean your back against his chest and plays with his fingers on your lap.

His voice flows over you, around you, and embraces you as he sings in a language you cannot identify. You once thought it was French, but you hear a French couple on the street another day and you decided that it was not. Then you thought maybe it was Latin, then Italian, then Mandarin, Cantonese…you guess and you guess, and without fail you learn that it isn’t. You asked him once, _what language is that_ , but all he returns you is a smile, his eyes shimmering with an emotion you cannot put your finger onto, and words that never ceases to puzzle you.

_It’s the language of my people, darling._

_You mean your hometown_ , you correct, but he only shakes his head and out the foreign words flow, into a tune so entrancing you decide you don’t care and don’t need to know. Not if he keeps singing to you in the gentle, rolling language he does.

 

-

 

 _Thranduil,_ you whisper when he slumbers next to you. Those days bring a smile upon your lips; those days you see him so free, so much younger, it’s as if he’s a whole other person. You stroke his long silver-gold hair and wonder how such a unique colour can be found on a human; your own rare golden-blond feels so _dull_ next to his. Your fingers will later venture up his neck and to his ears, caressing the slightly pointed tips and your smile will widen because he feels otherworldly— _ethereal_.

_Thranduil…_

You like saying his name, enjoying how it rolls on your tongue.

 

-

 

Some days, as you painstakingly brush the tangles out of your locks, you wish you could grab a pair of scissors and snip it all off, back to the length it was before you met him. You express this sentiment to him once, when you were still unused to the length and vexed by the way it swept in the wind and caught on your face, but you see the despair on his face and you never brought it up again.

Golden strands wrap around your neck and you fancy seeing a noose in the mirror.

 

-

 

 _My little leaf_ , he says, as he wraps his arms around you, as he’s inside you, and all around you. _My little leaf_.

You roll your eyes at the nickname, thinking it’s because of the mark from your birth— _like I’ve never heard that one before,_ you mutter—but inside you feel elated and so very _special_.

 

-

 

You look in the mirror and stare at your reflection.

Pale skin, cerulean eyes, golden-blond hair, and thin lips. You know you’re the envy of many and you’re pleased that you’ve managed to capture the attention of the one being more beautiful than anything you’ve seen in the world. You trace the lines of your face, lingering on your lips, and you think of him.

Sometimes you wonder whether you’re sick and twisted for loving a man who so closely resembles yourself he looks like your _father_.

But when he’s next to you, looking at you, _touching_ you; you fail to think about its wrongness as your mind is filled with only thoughts of _him_.

 

-

 

The first time he calls you his son, you furrow your eyebrows, wondering whether it is some sort of dirty kink. You decide to humour him and address him as _Daddy_ , but he only stills, and goes rigid all over. You remember the weight of his gaze on you and you still shiver at the memory.

 _That’s wrong_ , he says, and you have no idea what to think.

 

-

 

You realise that you will never be able to understand him, no matter how hard you try.

 

-

 

Before you know it, you turn twenty-seven. It has been ten years since you met him and you look at yourself in the mirror, seeing the way your face has sharpened, more pronounced, _older_.

Then you look at him and realise he has not aged a day.

 _Are you immortal_ , you joke and the expression on his face is peculiar.

 

-

 

Everything falls to pieces when you find yourself at your lowest, crying on your knees, begging for him to tell you he loves you, that he cares for you—like the way _you_ do. You don’t know what prompted you to let this river loose, why the dam you built seemed to have crumbled to dust. All those years you have kept silent, kept your lips sealed tight, despite the array of questions that ached to be released.

You see his indifferent features and you want to _die_.

You know you’ve lost him, he’ll wander off to find another. You know you do not anchor him, for you do not hold his heart, and the fact that he has stayed this long with you is a blessing and a curse. You wonder whether there is someone out there who does.

You beg for one last thing from him.

_My name, please, Thranduil, my name, I want to hear you say my name._

_Darling,_ he only says, in a toneless voice and your heart only breaks further, _you ask for something I cannot grant_.

You sink into a darkness you cannot crawl out of.

 


End file.
